


To See

by TellNearaToWrite



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Fluff, M/M, Misunderstandings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-21
Updated: 2012-09-21
Packaged: 2017-11-14 18:50:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,481
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/518399
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TellNearaToWrite/pseuds/TellNearaToWrite
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John knows texting is perhaps their least effective way of communicating. He forgets this as he’s consumed by boredom on his day off, because he’s pretty sure Sherlock Holmes just propositioned him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	To See

**Author's Note:**

  * For [nyxnyssa](https://archiveofourown.org/users/nyxnyssa/gifts).



> A (much belated) birthday fic for two of my favourite people: [pkmndaisuki](http://pkmndaisuki.tumblr.com/) and [Nyx](http://incitealight.tumblr.com/)

So far, the flat had been quiet. More than that—it was _silent_. John didn’t know what to do with himself. He’d woken late, blissfully enjoying his day off already, and it wasn’t until he’d gone downstairs that he was struck by the silence.

“Sherlock?” he called. There was no response, so he carefully poked about, first casting an eye around the sitting room before wandering down the hall to Sherlock’s bedroom. The detective wasn’t there, and John thought he could safely assume he hadn’t slept there either, if the pile of papers that had accumulated on the bed were anything to go by. As he passed through the kitchen, he noted that a mug had been placed out on the table beside a newspaper. He eyed it suspiciously, but let it be in favour of returning to his room and grabbing his mobile from its charger. He leaned against his desk as he typed out a quick text.

_Where are you?_

He puttered about his room, making his bed while he waited for a response. He was seated on the edge of his bed, phone in hand, still waiting for an answering text, when he realized _what_ he was doing. He cursed softly, tossing his phone onto his pillow, and then stood up to shuffle about his room. He left, towel in hand, headed for the bathroom.

John’s idea of an ideal day off involved nothing but peace, quiet, and perhaps a bit of telly without Sherlock’s shouted commentary or his inane ramblings. He’d resigned himself to never getting that opportunity—the last time he’d had a day off, he’d gotten kidnapped. The time before that, he’d spent the day and most of the night trailing a murder suspect, as per usual. Before that, he’d actually been chased by a serial killer. His memory grew patchy trying to remember any other days off in the past months, but he was fairly sure they all involved some high level of danger and a distinct lack of peace and quiet. There was not a chance in the world that he would pass up even the slightest possibility that he could spend the day in heavenly silence by fretting over the fact that Sherlock had run off. 

He returned to his room after his shower, dressing quickly, and cast a cursory glance in the direction of his phone, just in time for it to begin buzzing with a response.

_Case. SH_

_And you didn’t take me along?_

John pocketed his phone and went downstairs to investigate the kitchen. The mug was empty and clean, and the paper was from today, and for the life of him, he didn’t understand _why_. It had fallen to him to wash the dishes, as Sherlock couldn’t be bothered, and he knew without a doubt that he himself had not washed that mug the previous night. The retrieval of the newspaper was his job, as was the reading of said paper, as that action was far too tedious for a certain consulting detective.

The buzz of his phone pulled his attention away from musings over newspapers and clean dishes.

_You didn’t want to be disturbed. SH_

_How do you know? You didn’t say anything to me before you left._

_You informed me rather succinctly yesterday evening that I was, under no circumstances, to bother you. SH_

John frowned. He knew he’d told Sherlock off the night before, but he’d never considered the possibility that he would actually listen to him. That in and of itself was shocking. He held his phone for a moment, glancing up and noticing for the first time that the kettle was out, placed in a way that suggested it should be used. When he looked into it, he saw it had already been filled with water. His frown deepened and he flicked the kettle on while thoughtfully toying with his phone. He musingly ran his fingers across its surface.

_Did you get the paper for me?_

He put the phone down on the table and went about making breakfast—just a bit of toast with his tea. He sat down with his paper and managed to read it cover to cover, something he never quite got around to on most normal days. He usually only read what would interest Sherlock, which was a rather limited stretch of topics, concerning murders, maiming’s, and, depending upon the level of the other man’s boredom, thefts of objects he thought to be interesting.

Sherlock still hadn’t responded by the time he’d finished the paper and cleaned up from breakfast, so he assumed he wasn’t going to get an answer at all. Likely, Sherlock had read the text and scoffed, deigning it too obvious a question to answer. John moved to the sitting room and studied the bookshelf. He saw nothing which caught his interest at the moment and thus dropped into his armchair with a heavy sigh. He eyed his phone once again.

_Thanks for tidying up the kitchen this morning. It was a nice surprise, and I know you’re usually busy._

He looked at the text for a moment and then cursed under his breath, violently jabbing the delete key. There was not a chance he would be able to live a text like that down. Sherlock would teasingly call him out on his sentimental ‘drivel’, and he’d have no way to defend himself, because it would be utterly true.

_Thank you._

Simpler, to the point. It expressed his gratitude, but nothing else. That was acceptable. He hit send and turned to see what was on the telly. It was only after three hours, when John had watched a monotonous stream of daytime programs, that he came to a realization; he _hated_ peaceful quiet days. He always wistfully looked forward to them, because ideally, he _should_ want peace and quiet and utter relaxation. Somehow, though, he always managed to avoid that exactly. Sherlock would always see to it, in his quirky, infuriating manner.

He looked at his phone again. It had been silent since breakfast, and he wished it hadn’t been, as he desperately needed a distraction. Just yesterday evening, he hadn’t thought he would spend today by himself. He’d assumed Sherlock would help him pass the time by fluttering about the flat in his busy way, making the whims of his restless mind John’s concern. In fact, he realized with utter dismay, he’d been looking forward to it. The idea of spending another hour without something _interesting_ to do left him ceaselessly bored, and he felt a pang of sympathy for Sherlock when he’d gone any amount of time without something to occupy his mind.

_How’s the case?_

_Boring. SH_

He was surprised by the nearly instantaneous reply, and his lips quirked into a small smile.

_I guess you don’t need my help, then._

_Your presence could only improve the situation. SH_

_If it’s that bad, why’d you take the case?_

_Favour for Lestrade. SH_

_Your presence would improve the situation regardless of the nature of the case. SH_

_I do recall you telling me you found my company stimulating._

_Your own words. SH_

_Anything I can do?_

_No. SH_

John frowned sourly, glancing back up at the telly. It still didn’t appeal to him to keep watching.

_I could meet you somewhere to help. Where are you?_

_It’s your day off. SH_

_I’m aware, Sherlock._

_Then take your day off and don’t do anything, as you wanted. Otherwise, don’t complain when we have a case on your days off. SH_

_Fine. Can I do anything, then? I could make dinner._

_I’m not hungry. SH_

John let out an explosive sigh. “Bloody—” The irritated tirade he was about to launch himself in to was cut off by the buzz of his phone.

_There is something I need from you. SH_

_What is it?_

_I need to see your skin. SH_

And John stared, a sudden rush of heat blossoming across his skin and his mind coming to a faltering stop. He couldn’t have read that right. No, no. He reread the message once, twice more, just in case, and it was still there. He turned to the rest of the sitting room, letting out a heavy, wearied sigh. He didn’t need to answer just yet; he needed to think, to decipher what he’d been told. He pursed his lips, unsure of himself, but idly aware of the fact that he should in fact answer sometime. He turned back to his phone, clicking through the messages once more, triple checking yet again that, yes, the text really was still there, and it really did say exactly what he thought it did.

_I need to see your skin. SH_

And then he frowned heavily, staring in concentration. Yes, alright then.

_When?_

Not five minutes later, the phone chimed its response.

_Tonight. SH_

_Alright._

John was fairly sure that his brain was no longer functioning and was utterly irreparable. If it was functioning, he thought he’d be able to come up with a more reasonable idea as to why Sherlock _needed to see his skin_ , because the one that had blazed through his brain before it shut down just seemed faulty.

Somewhere in the far corner of his mind, he was dimly aware that, yes, alright, _texting_ was a poor way to communicate with Sherlock, who, when confronted by a mere text without the added context of body language, could not deduce the motivation behind the turns of phrase contained in the text. Thusly, John knew he took everything in a deathly literal manner.

As for himself, without the benefit of seeing _how_ Sherlock said things, John knew he floundered when deciphering his flatmate’s occasionally cryptic texts. A remark of _you’re an idiot_ could be either a fond declaration, as denoted by the barest twitch of a lip, which could very well develop into a smile if John played his cards right, or it could be a vicious assault upon his character, and he’d never be any the wiser if he wasn’t watching Sherlock carefully.

No. Texting was a _terrible_ way for them to communicate. It led to a vast number of misunderstandings between them, and it had on more than one occasion been the catalyst to a great row. He _knew_ this. Yet he couldn’t shake the feeling that he had, in fact, just been propositioned by Sherlock Holmes. And what disturbed him most was that he was, strangely, _absolutely_ fine with it.

He was utterly doomed.

 ~^~

“Ah, John.” Sherlock was at the door, his scarf already unwound and his coat halfway off by the time John looked up. He’d spent the remainder of his afternoon curled around a book on the sofa, trying to enjoy the space that Sherlock usually monopolized. He’d only managed to torture himself attempting to find out how to deal with his mad flatmate, but he silently applauded himself for at least trying to distract himself.

“Oh, you’re home.” Sherlock’s lips twitched, and though he didn’t comment, John felt as though the word _obviously_ was implied. He cleared his throat, sitting up straighter on the sofa. “So that, umm…” He looked away, gathering his resolve with a small nod. “My skin?” he asked, turning back to watch how Sherlock reacted.

The other man seemed to positively brighten as he smiled. “Yes! You don’t usually show this much interest, but I thought you might like to participate in this.” He turned on his heel in a showy flash. “Come along, John. We should prepare.” Sherlock murmured something under his breath as he hastily turned down the hall to his bedroom. John couldn’t quite catch what he’d said, and with a deep, resigned sigh, he stood up.

“Yes, right.”

He trailed after Sherlock and—oh hell, he was just going to go for it. He peeled off his jumper, dropping it to the floor, and then forced himself to stand straight, pausing just outside Sherlock’s bedroom. The dark haired man stopped short just on the other side of the door, turning to look at him. His eyebrows drew together ever so slightly in confusion. “What are you doing?” he asked, his tone underlain with several shades of exasperated _what the hell?_ and perhaps even _don’t come into my room_.

John was confused, but he would not be beaten. “You wanted to see my skin,” he said slowly, deliberately. He took the tiniest step closer. “Here I am.”

“I see,” Sherlock said quietly, meeting his gaze for a moment before his eyes scanned across John’s bare torso.

He barked a laugh. “No you don’t.” And oh, he was making a right fool of himself, but he’d gone too far to turn back now. He stepped closer.

“No, I don’t,” Sherlock acquiesced with a small huff, his eyes darting about, taking in every detail available to him. “Why would you take off your—”

“You wanted to see my skin,” John insisted. “It’s here. You’re looking.” He could practically see the race of thoughts behind Sherlock’s eyes, and took yet another step closer. The proximity forced the taller man to meet his gaze. “What did you want to see?”

His mouth opened, but no sound escaped, and John took that as a small victory. Sherlock was speechless, and that was quite an accomplishment. The dark haired man drew in a loud breath, visibly composing himself, though his words still tumbled out in a rush. “Your skin. Cells. I needed a scraping to look at your cell structures and see how they react with—”

“My skin _cells_?”

“Yes, well. You’re here.” John couldn’t help it; he started laughing. _Of course_. This was _Sherlock_. What else would he mean if he asked to see your skin? “John?”

“You…you want to see what my _cells_ look like?” he gasped out. Sherlock looked startled, to say the least, and reached a hand out to place it on his arm and steady him as he laughed.

“I wasn’t aware I said anything funny,” he said, eyes narrowing.

“Sherlock…you really have no idea what that sounded like?”

“What else could you _possibly_ think I meant?” Sherlock asked indignantly.

John tried to reign in his laughter, leaning closer to the other man. “Sherlock,” he started despairingly, though his voice cracked rebelliously with mirth. “As ever, you observe, but you do not _see_.”

Sherlock looked scandalized. “John. You have that entirely wrong. I—” His words came to a screeching halt as John reached for him, drawing his face down, because really, with all his fabulous intelligence and observational ability, he _had_ to understand. The shorter man leaned closer, their lips just barely brushing together in a tentative kiss. Sherlock’s eyes were wide when John drew away. “Oh,” he breathed. “I see.” John chuckled as their lips met once again, this time with an insistent, crushing neediness.

And for once, Sherlock really did see.


End file.
